


Thanks For The Memories

by thatgirlwhodraws



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Death, M/M, Modern AU, Murder, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-13
Updated: 2013-11-16
Packaged: 2018-01-01 09:13:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1043063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatgirlwhodraws/pseuds/thatgirlwhodraws
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ramsay murdered his brother.</p><p>...Didn't he?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. He Fell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer; This is a modern AU. It was written with the thought in mind that Ramsay is   
> A) Very young (perhaps fifteen) 
> 
> B) Possibly Bipolar (he is still capable of regret in some aspects, though his behavior grows more and more violent and unpredictable as he ages) 
> 
> C) Based on the assumption that in a modern au, he wouldn't be quite as ruthless, because it wouldn't make sense for the culture.
> 
> Apologies if people find it unrealistic or out of character. Perhaps I'll write some canon and/or adult Ramsay to make up for it in the future.

“You think you’re better than me?” Ramsay growled, still wearing his uniform as he marched up the stairs. Domeric was an infuriating, calm presence at his back. 

“In some ways, that would be correct,  _brother_. At your age I had straight A’s.” Domeric rolled his shoulders. “I think we should start tutoring again. You were doing better last year.” Ramsay flinched at his words, snarling in his anger as he came to the top of the stairs, standing a little taller than Domeric. 

“I don’t  _need_  you.” Ramsay growled, his face flushed with anger, while Domeric arched a brow at him. “I don’t  _want_  your help! I hate you, you stupid piece of—“ Ramsay shoved Domeric hard as the man tried to step past him. He’d done it a hundred times before, and Domeric would always stand firm and immovable.

This time he didn’t.

Domeric stumbled back, loosing his footing on socked feet, slipping. Ramsay saw him start to fall too late, making a grab for his sleeve, though Domeric had height and weight on him and the scrap of fabric he’d managed to grip slipped through his fingers. Domeric’s head hit the stairs with a sickening crack, and he stopped moving.

Ramsay felt as if he couldn’t breathe. The anger drained from his face his jaw slack for a moment as he stared down at Domeric’s unmoving body. “Dom?” Ramsay whispered, his voice barely audible. His brother didn’t move. “…Dom?” He said, a little louder. He quieted when he saw his father round the corner, kneeling slowly beside Domeric’s body and touching the side of his face, feeling for a pulse. 

When Roose looked up at him, he didn’t have to say anything for Ramsay to know what it meant.  _Dead,_  Ramsay thought. A hundred excuses tried to claw their way free.  _It was an accident,_  he tried to say, though no sound would come out.  _I didn’t mean to._  But the look on Roose’s face silenced him. So he ran.

He slipped out a window and fell heavy from the second story, something he’d done a hundred times. He didn’t listen for the sound of sirens. He just ran until his legs burned. Ramsay found a trashy bar, got spectacularly drunk and followed a girl home, fucking her until she cried. When she was asleep, he found another bottle of liquor in her cabinet and locked himself in the bathroom, chugging half of it before being violently ill in the toilet. The burn in his throat finally allowed the tears to slip free, his face growing messy and wet with them as he leaned heavily against the toilet. He could still hear Domeric’s disapproving tone, knew he wouldn’t approve of Ramsay getting drunk like this.

 _I’m never going to hear him say it again,_  Ramsay thought, and a choked sob escaped him.

“I’m sorry,” He choked into the toilet, his voice barely above a whisper. He could hardly breathe. “I’m sorry….I’m sorry Dom, I-I’m sorry…” Ramsay sobbed, clamping his eyes tighter shut. “I didn’t mean to, please….” He wept, wept until tears wouldn’t come anymore and his stomach clenched with sickness again.

He woke leaning against the wall of the bathroom. He slept off his hangover there, ignoring the whining voice of the girl who’s home he’d invaded. She wouldn’t call the police, at least. He knew that much.

Ramsay went home by the end of the night, but he couldn’t look at his Father when he slipped in the front door. He headed straight upstairs and forced himself to study, all the while thinking of whether or not he should tell him what had happened.  _He always thought I hated Dom_. Ramsay thought miserably, feeling the familiar burn in his eyes and scrubbing them before tears could form.  _Even if I said something he wouldn’t believe me._

Ramsay snuck into Domeric’s room that night. He buried his face in his pillows and breathed in the smell of his shampoo. He didn’t stay past dawn, creeping back into his own bedroom, but after a dozen nights of that pattern, Domeric’s smell finally faded from the sheets, and all Ramsay had to remember him by were photographs he knew he couldn’t look at without his Father’s permission.


	2. Broken and Fixed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three times Ramsay came home beaten and bloody.

The first time he came home beaten bloody, Domeric quietly ushered him into the bathroom and spent an hour wiping him clean and tending to his cuts and wounds. By the time their father had gotten home, the swelling on his face had gone down enough that Roose only arched a brow before dismissing the minor injuries. Domeric threw away two trash bags full of bloodied tissues and towels while their father slept.

The second time he came home beaten bloody, Domeric had a rare moment where he looked angry. At first Ramsay thought it was at  _him,_ until Domeric had pulled him into the bathroom and begun wiping away the blood. He had quietly asked, “Who did you fight with?” And Ramsay had told him. The boys who’d ganged up on him never came back to his school after that. 

Ramsay hadn’t been able to disguise the bruises enough that time, and Roose made a remark about Ramsay getting into trouble. He’d grit his teeth and promised to be good. 

Ramsay didn’t stop fighting; but he learned to fight  _better_. Good enough that Domeric didn’t have to bloody a bag of tissues to make him look presentable before Roose returned home from a long day at work.

The third time he came home beaten bloody, Domeric wasn’t there anymore. He’d died a week prior, and Ramsay had no one to help him.  It made him angry to think about — he destroyed a vase in the front hall, snarling, sinking down against the wall. Ramsay had taken him for granted. He’d bickered at him when he should’ve thanked him for his help. He’d pretended he was fine while Domeric offered him help.  He felt like he’d lost a limb.

He didn’t know how long he sat there — long enough for the blood to dry and grow tacky on his face, and the door to swing open, making him flinch. He was glad he had been able to keep from crying — but Roose simply stared at him, looking down at him. Sighing, he stiffly pulled Ramsay to his feet and sat him at the kitchen counter, pulling out a first aid kit. The familiar smell of alcohol made his eyes water. 

“You’re going to clean that up.” Roose stated calmly, his eyes distant. Roose had always been distant. But the gap between him and his Father had widened since Domeric’s death. For once, Ramsay didn’t argue, he just sat, clenching his teeth to avoid the spill of tears that threatened to escape down his cheeks.

“ _Yes sir._ ”


	3. An Accident

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The truth comes out.

“If your brother were here, he would’ve known better.” Roose’s voice cut through Ramsay like a knife. How long had it been now? Three years? Four? And still Roose hammered into Ramsay for Domeric’s death. The argument that had built to the point where Roose brought up Domeric broke Ramsay. He couldn’t keep it contained anymore. The dam broke.

“ **IT WAS A FUCKING ACCIDENT! I DIDN’T KNOW HE WOULD FALL!** ” And Roose fell silent and stared at him. The silence made him ache, and so Ramsay continued, still screaming. “ **WE—WERE—ARGUING! I SHOVED HIM AND HE— HE FELL!**” Ramsay panted, shaking.

Roose stood. His face was flushed with anger, and he raised his hand, as if he were going to hit him. Then he stopped, letting his hand fall back down. His voice was low and intense. “You didn’t even want him dead, and you took him from me.” He was shaking with anger. Ramsay was shaking, too. His eyes burned.

“Why would I—,” he wasn’t yelling now, his voice hoarse. “Why would I kill the only person who gave a shit about me in this family!?” Ramsay roared, tears burning in his eyes. “If I wanted him dead — If I wanted him dead, I would’ve just slit his throat!” Ramsay was panting now, his anger only growing under Roose’s cold stare. “If you hate me so much, why didn’t you just kill me?”

Roose shook his head. “Do you think I haven’t considered it?” Roose asked softly, the words leaving Ramsay feeling cold. “You’re my only son now. If I wanted you dead…they’d never find your body.”

Ramsay flinched back a little, then growled. “Just— just kill me, if that’s the only reason you’re keeping me around.” Roose moved in closer to him then, his breath tickling Ramsay’s cheek.

“I want you to live with this. I want you to suffer.” Roose stated coldly, before stepping back. Anger burned in Ramsay, hot and painful. He didn’t feel the tears streak down his cheeks.

“Fuck you,” Ramsay snapped, stalking out of the room. He slammed his bedroom door behind him. He scrambled in one of his drawers for a knife. Fuck his father. Fuck this life. He knew Roose wished he was the one who’d died, that Dom had shoved him down the stairs, that it had been his neck that snapped.

Ramsay was all too happy to oblige his dear father. He cut deep. Blood flowed into the bathroom sink. It went fast. There was barely any pain. Then there was a feeling of sleepiness, and then darkness. Ramsay had a moment of regret at the last moment, before unconsciousness took him.

No, he thought, barely conscious. I don’t want to go, I’m sorry—

—

Everything was clean and white. Ramsay groaned at the brightness of it. He tried to sit up, stopping when he found himself restrained by belts. His arms were bandaged where he’d cut himself, and there was a bag of blood to his left, hooked up to him. His Father sat beside him, his eyes looking more sunken than usual, as if he hadn’t slept.

Exhausted and bitter, Ramsay looked at his father, grouching. “What?” He hissed, waiting to be berated, to be scolded. Roose stared at him. It struck Ramsay that he looked very old. After a while, he finally spoke, and his voice was weaker than Ramsay had ever heard it.

“Don’t leave your father alone.” Roose said quietly. Ramsay’s throat felt tight, and his eyes stung with the threat of tears. He looked away.

“My…my father doesn’t want me.” Ramsay mumbled. He heard Roose sigh, and spared him a glance.

“Please.” Roose pleaded.

Ramsay couldn’t look at him. He knew he’d cry if he did. “Fine. I’ll…I’ll try not to be a complete disappointment. Maybe…maybe if you’re lucky someone will hate me enough to take my head off. Rid you of me sooner.”

The wrinkles around Roose’s eyes deepened with his disapproval. “Stop bluffing. We both know you’d not be here if I wanted you dead.” Ramsay couldn’t help but sneer, raising his wrists as much as he could.

“This is bluffing?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Ramsay had to look away again, drawing in a shuddering breath. He struggled against his bonds with a hint of irritation. “Just….forget it. I won’t do it again, daddy dearest.” Even his japes were weak. Roose was silent for a moment.

“I’ll pull some strings to get you out faster….alright?”

Ramsay startled a bit. “….What? You don’t want me here being babysat?”

Roose scoffed softly. “They’re all incompetent anyway. And you’re strong enough to overpower them. It’s a waste of time.” His eyes were pleading Ramsay again, quietly. Ramsay felt subdued, tired, and he grumbled a little.

“At least we can agree on that. Fine.” He relented, seeing his Father relax.

“Would you like anyone there when you get home? That girl? Or that slovenly lab partner of yours?” Roose raised a brow. Ramsay was quiet, staring down at the bandages on his wrists.

“…No. I don’t….I don’t want them to see me like this.” He said quietly. Roose looked at him, raising one hand, as if to touch Ramsay — only to drop it again a second later before he stood.

“…I’ll order take out then, so there aren’t any dishes. I’ll get you a bottle of pepsi with it.” Roose suggested, making Ramsay raise a brow. It wasn’t often his father let him indulge in ‘sweets’. Roose seemed to pause for a moment, then. “…I haven’t told anyone you’re here.” He forced a smile, his expression pained. “Do you want this on your medical records?”

Ramsay wasn’t sure what to say. He knew his Father would go to great lengths to protect himself and his reputation…but he couldn’t remember the last time Roose had done it for him for any reason other than Ramsay being violent against someone. “…I’ll leave that up to you to decide.” Ramsay said quietly. Roose nodded, and stood.

“I’ll take care of it then. I have some work cut out for me, I’m afraid. But I’ll be back when it’s handled.” Ramsay nodded, not saying anything. His father left in silence, and Ramsay finally let the knot of tension in his chest unwind, letting out a quiet sob.

As soon as he thought his father was out of earshot, he broke down and sobbed harder than he had since Domeric had died.


	4. Hunting Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Occasionally, Ramsay manages to impress his Father.

Ramsay had been in a tree. He’d climbed it, despite the look his Father gave him, the old crossbow Roose had lent him in hand. He might’ve preferred a gun— but his father was insistent to practice  _old ways_  first. He had sat unmoving in the tree, aiming down the sight of the crossbow when he spotted a squirrel.

He took a deep breath. Aimed. Loosed it. The animal didn’t make a sound when it fell, and Ramsay jumped down from the tree, his father watching silently as he retrieved the animal, dangling it from it’s tail. 

His bolt had gone straight through the squirrel’s eye and clean out the other side. Though Roose said nothing, he grasped his shoulder and  _squeezed_. “I didn’t know you could do that.” Roose commented after a moment, before nodding. “Skin it.” Roose said, as if dismissing him. 

Ramsay started a bit. This was only the third time his Father had taken them to hunt, and never had he allowed Ramsay the privilege of skinning it himself. When they ate by the fire, his Father didn’t say a word when he snuck a drink from the flask Roose had brought, though he usually would’ve reprimanded him.

That night, alone in the tent he shared with Domeric, his brother held him in close, running his fingers through his hair, massaging his scalp. “He was so proud of you, Ramsay.” Domeric murmured against his hair. “He didn’t say it. But I know what he looks like when he’s proud. He was  _proud_ of you, Ramsay.”

Ramsay said nothing. He let his brother run his fingers through his hair until he fell asleep. 

Days later, after they had gone home, he found a tidy little box on his bed. It contained the cleaned and treated fur of the squirrel he’d killed.  He didn’t know what to think of it, until he saw the label on the top. His heart dropped into his stomach.

Written on in it in his father’ s neat handwriting was simply; “For my son.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These memories are not in any particular order, just sort of a stream-of-conciousness thing I have going concerning the universe they're in.


	5. Father's Work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes Roose brings his work home.

He wasn’t supposed to see it. Ramsay knew that much. 

But how could he _not_?  

There were times, occasionally, when Roose brought his _work_ home. It wasn’t something they spoke of. But tonight, whoever he’d brought home into the basement was noisier than most. Ramsay snuck down, pressing his ear against the door. 

The slick sounds through the door were low, quiet, but he could hear them. Ramsay felt a throb of heat go straight to his cock. 

 _“Please, please, I’ll tell you whatever you want—“_  

 _“Be quiet.”_   

The screams were muffled this time — he thinks, his Father must have gagged the man. The slick tearing sound of skin separating from muscle is almost lewd, and Ramsay muffled a groan into his sleeve, cupping his own cock in his pants and squeezing.  

There was a wail and a sob behind the door as his father paused, perhaps moving to get another tool. Listening was _good_ , it made his imagination go wild, but he had to _see_. 

Carefully, he opened the door a crack. His eye pressed against the crack, watching the shape of his Father’s back. The man in front of him was missing half the skin off of his chest, peeled away in neat strips and laid across a table like drying leather. The man was shaking, his head lolled back, a ball of cloth shoved into the man’s open mouth.  The smell of blood and sweat and _fear_ washed over him like a wave, and Ramsay shoved a hand down his pants, stroking himself, rough and desperate.

The man started screaming behind his gag again as Roose fitted the blade to an unmarked area, carefully cutting away the skin. He was bound down tight with rolls of tape, to keep him from jerking too much and ruining Roose’s hard work.  Ramsay’s cock was hard and wet at the tip, god, he was so close, watching his father torture the man in front of him. He held his breath, fingers clamping around himself with cruel roughness.

Roose paused, glancing back over his shoulder. He caught Ramsay’s eye where it was pressed into the sliver of the door, and Ramsay couldn’t help the desperate little huff of breath he let out. Then Roose turned back to his work, tearing away one long strip of skin, making the man scream—

And Ramsay came hard, rutting against his hand and the door, the inside of his pants and boxers messy with the evidence of his want. He closed the door too loudly and stumbled upstairs into the bathroom, panting. 

He dreamed of blood that night and woke up hard, jerking himself off to the memory of stripped skin and blood and _flesh_ and _pain_.


	6. The Basement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ramsay remembers the basement.

Ramsay remembers the basement.  

He was locked there, once. Only once, and he never wanted to be again.  His father had been _so angry_ that he’d hurt Domeric. He had locked him in the basement, with access only to water. 

“ _Your brother will let you out._ ” He had said. But Domeric couldn’t even get out of bed. Ramsay had no idea how long his recovery would take — and he hadn’t _meant_ to hurt him so badly, but they were _fighting_ , and he’d gotten lucky — or perhaps, unlucky. Domeric had gone down.

Days passed. Weeks. It was difficult to tell in the dark. There were no windows in the basement. There was a light, but turning it on meant looking at the place he was trapped in. The heavy lock on the door was impossible to break by force, and Ramsay was barely fifteen, not strong enough to even _try._  

The hunger was a gnawing pain at first, making him grimace and yell, frustrated and angry. Then it became a deep ache. Then it would pass. There were no mirrors in the basement, but after a time, Ramsay could start to see his stomach was _thinner_ , his ribs protruding more prominently than they ever did.  Sometimes he would drink enough water from the tap in the corner to fill his belly, to give him some _semblance_ of being satiated, though more oft than not that only made him ill, vomiting up nothing but bile and the water he’d just drank. 

He found himself sleeping often, curled in the cold, uncomfortable corner against an old sheet. and blanket.  The ever-present chill made him shake and shiver. He noticed how badly he _stank_ , at first. Then that passed too. Hunger was more important. Fear. Isolation.  

Ramsay felt periods of numbness, where he could think of other things. Try desperately to find a way to keep his mind busy. But then the reality of his situation would hit him and he would feel a clawing panic. It was becoming more and more of a chore to get up to even cross the room to the tap for water. During one trip, he pulled his blanket and sheet beside it so he wouldn’t be forced to walk for it every time. He stopped getting up to turn on the light, standing only to urinate in the small bathroom. Time was blurring into a singular blackness that choked him at all times.

Was Domeric okay? Had he died? That thought made Ramsay’s throat go tight, his eyes burning. He had been ashamed of crying, at first. But being isolated had washed him clean of the shame of such things. With no way to bathe, with no food, no real bed, there were other things that concerned him more than shame.  

Hunger was a constant ache in his stomach, to the point where Ramsay almost forgot about it. Ramsay felt like he was a bowstring pulled too tight, an inch away from snapping. Frustration came in hot tears down his face.  

 _Why won’t I just die?_ Ramsay thought, over and over. Even when miserable, starving and in the dark, his body stubbornly refused to give in. The only thing keeping Ramsay from ending it himself was the slim chance Domeric still lived, and would walk in to find his body.  

A point came where he wondered if Domeric had decided not to free him. _He was always scolding me_ , Ramsay thought numbly. _Always disappointed._ Domeric was better off without his bastard half-brother trailing at his heels and staining the family reputation. _He’s not coming for me_.

And then the door opened.

Domeric looked thinner, likely from inability to exercise. His face was drawn tight as he entered the room, flipping on the light. Ramsay flinched where he was curled in the corner, wrapped in his thin blanket. He saw Domeric’s nose wrinkle and knew why — _I reek —_ but Domeric just knelt in front of him, pulling Ramsay against him and holding him. Ramsay’s forehead pressed into his shoulder, too startled to do or say anything.

Then he felt the familiar stroke of slender fingers through his tacky, sweaty hair. Ramsay shuddered, as if in pain. Then he felt the hot burn of tears, slipping down his cheeks and onto the fabric of Domeric’s shirt. Neither of them spoke.  

Eventually, Domeric helped him to his feet. One strong arm came around Ramsay’s waist, helping him up the stairs and out of the basement. He took him to his bathroom — not the one in the hall, but the one in _Domeric’s_ room. Domeric turned on the water, making sure it wasn’t too hot before he helped Ramsay out of his filthy clothes. “Get cleaned up.” He said quietly. “I’ll be downstairs making you something to eat. Shout if you need me.” 

He turned to go, and Ramsay clamped his fingers tight on Domeric’s arm. His knuckles went white with the force of it, but Domeric simply turned to look at him. Ramsay swallowed. “…You came for me…” Ramsay whispered.

Domeric seemed to soften, just a little. He ran his fingers through Ramsay’s hair again. “Of course I did.” He shifted, helping Ramsay step into the shower. Ramsay held on for a moment longer, his head bowed.

“..Thank you…” Ramsay murmured, his voice a little rough from disuse. Domeric said nothing, but the corner of his mouth quirked in a smile as he left.

Ramsay let the hot water scald him clean of the filth he’d gathered in the basement. He ate, though he wasn’t able to stomach more than a few bites of the food Domeric made him. 

He slept in Domeric’s bed that night. His arms wound tight around his brother’s middle, telling himself he wouldn’t fall asleep, that it might be a dream too sweet to wake from. But despite his fears, once Domeric’s warmth was wrapped around him, he dozed off. He woke laying half atop him, warm and safe, pretending to sleep while Domeric set his alarm to snooze so they could rest a while longer.

 

 


	7. My Brother Brought Me Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Ramsay came to live with his father, and his brother. In the beginning.

When Ramsay had been born, Roose had quietly paid child support to shut his mother up. 

 She knew he was well off, spent months begging for his favor. Every year on Ramsay’s birthday she would pitch a great fuss, about some other thing their son needed, to try and wheedle more money out of him.

After a dozen or so times, he sent Domeric to ward her off, too busy to address the woman himself. 

The woman looked at Domeric, unimpressed. 

“I’m done with this.” She snapped, irritated. Ramsay was sitting at a table further down in the restaurant, ushered off by his mother. He was a short boy, always seemed to look perpetually angry, tearing at a strip of napkins until it was in a ragged pile beneath his fingers. “He’s enough trouble as it is. If your father doesn’t want to pay for him, I’m not keeping him.” She sneered, crossing her arms over her chest. 

“He bit our next-door neighbor last week. _Bit_ him! All the boy did was push Ramsay a little. Ramsay is violent, and I just can’t take it anymore.” She threw her hands up. “He’s a _monster_ , a _psychopath,_ and he’s _stupid,_ that little bastard.”  

Domeric twitched. He met Ramsay’s eyes where the boy sat across the restaurant. The boy was _angry,_ but he had his father’s eyes. _Eyes like mine,_ Domeric thought. He pulled out a handful of bills, pushing them to Ramsay’s mother. “Buy yourself a meal,” Domeric said calmly. “I’m taking my brother and leaving. If we hear from you again, you will regret it.” Domeric stared her down, until the woman shrank back. A boy less than half her age, though he had those _eyes_. Roose’s eyes, eyes that could cut through you like a knife.

Domeric approached Ramsay where he sat, eying him. “Ramsay,” He said, testing the name on his tongue. “I’m your brother. How would you like to come and live with me and your Father?”  

Ramsay glanced between him and his mother, taking in her scathing expression. Wetting his lips, the boy nodded. “Sure,” He said. “My mother doesn’t want me anyway.” Domeric frowned, but at the same time, he felt a strange pride.  

 _That woman is a fool. He’s smarter than she thinks._ He thought. _He could be a great man someday. If I make him one._ He took Ramsay’s hand, guiding him from the restaurant. As they left, Ramsay grabbed the cup of coffee at his mother’s side and threw it into her face, ignoring her scream of pain and rage as they rounded the corner and slipped out of the place.

 Roose’s stare was surprised, perhaps annoyed, but he said nothing when Ramsay came home with Domeric, and nothing still when Domeric made sure he had a room of his own to sleep in. They never heard from his mother again.


	8. Mother Dearest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ramsay sees his mother again, after many years.

Ramsay grew to hate his mother, Heke, as he grew up. Her absence in his life became a scar that occasionally irritated him.

It wasn’t until he was a teenager that she showed up at his door, when both his Father and Brother weren’t home.

He stood numbly to the side as she smiled and touched his cheek. “Oh, Ramsay…” Heke crooned, kissing his cheeks. Ramsay said nothing as she stepped inside, closing the door behind her, making herself at home. “You’ve grown to be such a beautiful young man.” She smiled, smoothing down the collar of his shirt. 

Ramsay bristled a little at the touch, stiff and unfamiliar. She looked the same, just… _older,_ like him. Operating on auto-pilot, he invited her in, numbly brewing tea for them both. That done, he sat down in the living room with her, swallowing. “Why are you  _here_?” He finally dared to ask.

Heke smiled again, too wide, showing off all her teeth. “I regret giving you up, Ramsay…you’re such a beautiful boy now. You were so well behaved. And your father…” she sighed, shaking her head. “I don’t think he raised you well enough. I saw you at school the other day, arguing with another boy. I can’t help but think that you wouldn’t have done that if I had been a better mother…and the  _things_  I’ve heard about you…”

 _She’s been following me._  Ramsay realized, and he wasn’t sure what to feel. He couldn’t help but see the stiffness in her shoulders, the awkward way she kept looking around at the decorative elements his Father had out — expensive paintings, vases. She looked  _greedy_ , hungry. Her eyes finally met Ramsay’s again. 

“You look so much like me…” Heke said softly, reaching out for him again, touching his cheek. 

 _I don’t have her eyes._  Ramsay grit his teeth. He managed to smile. “Mother…” The word felt dirty, wrong in his mouth. “Why are you  _here_?” Where else had she been following him? Had she seen the things he was learning for the sake of helping his father? 

“Well..” Heke trailed off, dropping her hand from his cheek. “I’ve been so concerned about you, Ramsay. I nearly went to the police, to tell them I was worried for your safety. I suppose things have just been so rough lately…you know, I was never as successful as your father…he never provided me the nice things you’re used to now.” She sighed.

_Lies, lies, her smile is a lie, they’re all_ **_lies_ ** _._

Rage boiled hot in Ramsay, like hot coals in his belly. Somehow, it didn’t show on his face. He managed a smile, the kind of smile that Roose sometimes gave him. The kind that made him shiver, as though the cool touch of a knife were pressed against the back of his neck. 

“I understand, Mother…” Ramsay said softly. “Look…I shouldn’t do this, but my Father keeps money in the basement. In case of emergencies, you know…” he stood, beckoning her up. Eager, she followed at his heels like a hungry dog. Ramsay led her down, flicking the light on once they were inside. He closed and barred the door behind them. 

“Where is it?” Heke asked, breathless and excited. “Where’s the money, Ramsay?” 

Ramsay’s fist came down on the side of her face, knocking her down. With her disoriented from the force of the blow, Ramsay bound her with thick strips of tape. He bound her down to the floor. For what he wanted, she needed to be on the floor. 

“R-Ramsay, no, you don’t have to do this —“ She froze as she saw the knife, cutting up the front of her shirt. He bent his head, lips brushing soft over her mouth. 

“You should know,” He said softly. “This basement is soundproof.” He let her absorb that, the horrified look in her eyes. Her flesh was elastic with her age. Pulling a strip of tape over her mouth, he made a long cut on her belly. He had to fight not to shake with rage. 

This was the first time he’d cut into a person, rather than a dead animal hide. 

She started to scream behind her gag, a muffled, ugly sound. Ramsay ignored it. His work was not as clean as the work he’d seen his father do. He peeled strips of her skin away and laid them on the ground beside her, speaking low and furious the entire time.

“You think you can just come here now? And tell me that you  **want**  me? That you care?” Ramsay snarled, and her wails grew higher, breathy through her nose. Tears streaked her face .Ramsay tore away a long strip of flesh from the sagging curve of her breast. “And then you  **dare**  try to ask for money?” He let out a laugh of his own, high and manic. 

“ _You disgust me._ ” Ramsay spat. Then he stopped talking. He held her down with his weight, stripped away long pieces of her skin, focusing on her breasts, her hips. Some on her legs, though the skin there was tighter. When he had a handful of her skin stripped in his hand, he stared down at her in disgust. Then he moved to the stairs, whistling.

“ _Girls!_ ” He cried. The dogs bayed happily and came tumbling down the stairs. He held out the strips of her skin, cooing. “Dinner time, come on.” He hummed, ignoring the wrecked sobs of the woman behind him. Curious, the dogs licked at the meat in his hands first, then began to eat it, growling between one another. When the small bits of flesh he’d given were gone, Ramsay shut the basement door again. 

“Girls,” Ramsay said again, the dogs turning to him. He walked to his mother’s cut body, tapping her leg. “ _Dinner._ ”

The dog’s excited baying drowned out the muffled scream Heke let out behind the tape.

—

There wasn’t much left when the dog’s hunger was finally abated. Ramsay cut what he could of her up to feed to them later, stripping her skin of it’s meat and putting them in neat little bags, unrecognizable as human meat. He put a very specific label on it before sticking it in the fridge;  **Dog Food**.

He left the dogs chewing on her bones in the basement before gathering what was left in bags. He had seen his father clean before, and used the techniques he could remember. 

Her clothes he burned. His Father arrived home as he left, her car keys in hand, but he said nothing as he got in her car and drove it away. He took it to the junk yard, parking it. Cars were crushed there regularly — Ramsay knew, he had gone through a phase as a boy where the junk yard was an exciting playground.

By the time he returned home, his Father was waiting for him. He stood, arms folded behind his back, his expression impassive. 

Ramsay wasn’t sure what to say.


End file.
